


to write with blood of force

by amosanguis



Series: wingfic [12]
Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Wings, Character Study, Gen, Pre-Slash, Wingfic, Wings, so many different tags for wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25620715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amosanguis/pseuds/amosanguis
Summary: Vultures are never welcome.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/NoHo Hank
Series: wingfic [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/168275
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	to write with blood of force

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly word vomit, there's not much plot here.

-z-

> _Paper and ink can paint but naked words,  
> _ _To write with blood of force offends the sight,  
> _ _And, if with tears, I find them all too light,  
> _ _And sighs and signs a silly hope affords:  
> _ _O sweetest Shadow, how thou serv’st my turn!_

Michael Drayton

-z-

Acceptance.

It’s all Barry wants—

-

“You’ll have to do it eventually,” Mr. Cousineau says.

“Do it now,” Sally adds, her hand soft on his forearm, “while you’re in this safe place.”

The acting class, in their seats, echo the sentiment – cheering him on with applause and a few gentle whoops.

-

You get your wings based on the first big moment in your life – and what defines a big moment is relative to that person and the life they will lead, and no matter what, you’ll have your wings by the time you’re twenty-one.

-

Barry steps back from them and says, “No.”

Barry says, “You won’t understand.”

Barry says, “You won’t—”

-

There are lovers and there are fighters and there are those in-between.

People with the wings of corvids tend to be scientists and reporters; those with parrots wings – all those flashy colors – they’re the entertainers; athletes can range from raptors to songbirds depending on the sport (hummingbirds, with their feisty fighting nature, tend towards boxing or hockey); waterfowl fill the ranks of security – their tenacity and love for the chase make them good at what they do. Etc. etc.

Of course, these aren’t hard lines – there’s exceptions to every rule.

Every rule but one.

-

Mr. Cousineau steps up into Barry’s space with all the confidence of a man whose scarlet macaw feathers have opened more doors than closed them—

“Please, don’t,” Barry says, stepping back, eyes down—

—and Gene puts his finger into Barry’s chest, _poke_ , “You have to open up,” _poke_ , “Barry,” _poke_ —

—“Mr. Cou—”

— _poke, poke_ —

-

Vultures are never welcome.

-

—Barry takes a step back, but then he’s falling off the stage and he reacts on instinct.

Thousands of species of birds, but only one has the span- and width- and color-combination that covers the length of the stage now, blocks those behind Barry from seeing those in front of him.

His classmates behind him see only black feathers, and Sally and Gene see the white.

-

Barry is nineteen when he downs two men and feels no remorse.

That night, he wakes up screaming and scratching until he’s bloody, until he’s carried to the med-tent so the corpsman can grab a scalpel and get to work.

The first Manifestation is always a bloody affair.

-

Gene’s hand, the one he’d been using to poke Barry is still hovering in the air.

Sally covers her face and turns away, her small green parrot’s wings hunching up, her feathers standing on end.

-

Eventually, you learn how to _tuck away_ your wings without removing your shirt – it takes time and practice and, while in a war zone, there’s nothing Barry has but time.

He’s surrounded by owls and shrikes and, of course, other vultures – they were all young people with their consciousnesses trained out of them, of course they all had the wings of vultures – and they laugh and shove at each other, picking at each other with words and the occasional fist to the face for no other reason than for a distraction.

Barry runs his fingers over the white feathers on the inside of his wings.

California Condor.

 _Gymnogyps californianus_.

An endangered species, a carrion eater – special, yes, with an important ecological role, but still reviled for their work.

He wonders what it means for him and his future. When he joined the Marines he dreamed of becoming a shrike like his mama, or an owl like his brother – good, strong wings that no one in the civilian world looked twice at.

Then, later, when Fuches hands him his first assignment, he gets it.

-

Barry flees.

-

The only organization with a higher vulture concentration than the military, is organized crime.

NoHo Hank has the wings of an Egyptian Vulture (White Scavenger, Lesser Vulture, Pharaoh’s Chicken; _Neophron percnopterus_ ) and he shows them off proudly to Barry even as Barry levels a threat of particularly dire violence.

Barry can’t put it together – can’t figure out how _Hank_ of all people, with his constant smile and annoyingly endearing mixed idioms, could carry under his skin the wings of a vulture. He can’t reconcile it.

Or, he can’t until that moment, in the parking lot, when all of Hank’s niceties fall away and his gaze becomes cold and his voice becomes hard – and suddenly Hank is every bit of the Chechen mafia boss he claims to be.

The stark white of Hank’s feathers shine against Hank’s black leather jacket, vibrant even in the darkness – completely unruffled, showing to Barry that this confrontation was nothing to Hank and that there was no lie in Hank’s threats. Hank _would_ tell the family where to find Barry and the acting class _would_ be in danger – all because Barry had been, to put it simply, rude.

Hank, without a flinch in his wings or a hitch in his voice, orders Barry to kill, and Barry sees then, in that exact moment, where Hank’s wings come from.

-

Barry drives without knowing where he’s going. He drives until he finds himself in the desert, at the training grounds, and it’s there he stays until morning – sitting atop the roof of his car, head bent and wings arced to provide him with shade as the sun breaks over the mountains; his phone sits, long dead, on the floorboard of the backseat.

The Chechens show and, with them, Hank.

“Ah,” Hank says, smiling, drawing out the single syllable as he walks up to Barry, “look at _you_.”

Barry lifts his head at the sound of Hank’s voice behind him and shifts, his wings spreading out more to the side to catch the warmth of the sun. Hank reaches up and brushes a finger along one of Barry’s primaries as he passes underneath Barry’s wing so that they were face-to-face – it’s a casual thing, more of a gesture than an actual touch, but it’s more than Barry’s ever allowed anyone.

Their eyes meet then and Barry suddenly wants nothing more than to kneel at Hank’s feet and swear fealty; wants to declare himself Hank’s own personal weapon, to be used and then put away and forgotten until next time; wants to submit himself wholly and completely to an authority outside of himself.

Barry wants acceptance and Hank is there, smiling up at him as if they’ve all the time in the world together, as if nothing – not even the would-be army at their backs – mattered.

Barry trains Hank’s men and afterwards, when they’re all done for the day, Barry and Hank stay behind.

Barry steps in close, his wings tilted so the undersides were completely exposed to Hank – an act of supplication and submission.

Hank smirks, his own wings shaking loose and arcing forward, Hank’s white primaries brushing along Barry’s white coverts – an act of acceptance.

-z-

End.


End file.
